


Canvas Number Four

by Bird_Blast



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Piercings, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23120554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bird_Blast/pseuds/Bird_Blast
Summary: In order to protect Andrew, Neil must give up his winter break to apprentice under Riko.Evermore’s number one tattoo artist has some other plans for him during his stay.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Neil Josten/Riko Moriyama
Comments: 3
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Neil’s stay at Castle Evermore is such a perfect setting for some good old fashioned non-consensual tattoo work, and Riko is the perfect character to administer it.

He wakes up numb, like he’s still in a dream – acutely aware of his presence in the world, but unable to act on it. Was he even dreaming a moment ago? He can’t remember. Every passing second feels like a distant memory, hard to recall and impossible to string together.

Neil opens his eyes to a blinding white before immediately squeezing them shut again. All of his senses are overloaded. His mouth tastes dry. His skin feels sticky with sweat. A nearby fan thrums in time with the throbbing of his skull. Slowly, the overwhelming sensations boil down into something he can make sense of – the repeated drag of something sharp down the length of his arm. He tries to shake it off, but the limb refuses to comply despite his best efforts.

“Urgh,” Neil groans, trying to get the rest of his body to cooperate, with little success.

“Try to relax," someone says - unnaturally calm. "We haven’t even started yet and you’re already sweating up a storm."

He knows that voice.

“Have a bad dream, did we?”

It's a vestige from the past he thought he had left behind.

“I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as what I have planned for you.”

Neil blinks furiously, willing his eyes to adjust to the light, trying to remember where he is and how he got here. He’s been drugged, that much is clear, but his memory is shot, and his sense of time is fuzzy. His entire body tenses when the scratching along his arm is replaced with the drag of a damp cloth.

“You were out for quite a long time,” the voice informs him.

The cloth runs down and around the length of his arm, from his shoulder to his fingers, leaving his skin feeling cool in its wake. The touches are gentle, tender even, and for Neil – that makes it so much worse.

“Don’t worry, you didn’t miss much.”

Neil wants to scream, but he doesn’t trust it to come out as more than a yelp. He tries to crane his neck to get a look at the person in control of his nightmare, but he can’t even manage that. He hasn’t felt this powerless in a long time, not since –

“You know, I wasn’t expecting so many scars.” Neil startles as the cloth glides over his chest and down his torso. Had he zoned out? It’s impossible for him to tell. “But I suppose that’s to be expected of the son of the Butcher.”

The cloth makes its way down the right side of his rib cage, where he can feel it drag along ridges of scarred flesh. Memories of a hot clothing iron being pressed into his side burst through the floodgates of his mind. Memories that explain where he is. Memories that explain why he’s here. Memories that explain what’s going to happen next.

“Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining,” the voice muses as the cloth completes an arc across his stomach and moves on to his other arm. “In fact – I look forward to working them into my design.”

“Fuck you.” It comes out as little more than a slur. Neil imagines throwing himself at the self-satisfied asshole taunting him – tackling him to the ground and tearing him to pieces, but his body fails to comply.

“There’s a lot of fight in you, Nathaniel.” The voice continues unperturbed as the cloth makes one final sweep down his arm. “It’s a shame we’re going to have to keep you sedated for what comes next. I would have enjoyed the challenge of working with a struggling canvas. But, unfortunately for you and me, we just don’t have the time.”

Fleeting footsteps. The flow of water from across in the room. The rustle and tear of paper towel. The scrape of a stool across the tiled floor. The snap of nitrile gloves against skin. He hates that he can hear everything that’s happening with deafening precision. He hates that he knows what’s coming. He hates that there’s nothing he can do about it.

_Pop._

The sound of a marker being uncapped turns Neil’s stomach.

The first thing he feels is his left arm being lifted above his head, turned this way and that as a paper towel is dragged along his damp and freshly shaved arm. In its wake, gloved fingers trail along his skin, feeling the scar tissue and manipulating the muscle with deft precision – back and forth, up and down, for what feels an eternity.

“Just start already!” The clarity of his voice startles even Neil.

The fingers stop short along their winding path.

He can practically hear smirk.

“Eager, aren’t we?”

“I just want this over with.”

“Very well. It’s not every day that one is offered free work by the most talented tattoo artist in the country, especially not on this scale. So, I can see why you’d be excited to get started right away,” the voice replies as his arm is returned gently to his side. “It’s a shame I won’t be able to complete it all in the few weeks we have together, but I think that should be enough time to mark my claim, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You are one seriously fucked up individual,” Neil snaps back.

Nothing is said when the marker first makes contact with his arm. It begins at his shoulder with bold sweeping strokes that narrow into smaller and more precise lines as time goes on. He can feel the ink staining his skin, and even though it’s not permanent – not yet – Neil is resigned to the fact that this is something he won’t come back from.

\--

The lift of the marker followed by the soft clattering of a metal cart being dragged towards him is enough to indicate that the stencil work is done. Neil’s limp arm is once again lifted above his head and a cool gel is rubbed into his skin all the way from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers where the marker left its final marks. He’s used the stuff enough times himself to know that it’ll keep the marker stencil in place for the coming hours it takes to complete a tattoo in earnest.

Suddenly, the finality of the situation hits him, and Neil grits his teeth against a cry he doesn’t dare voice. It’s too late to stop what’s about to happen, but that doesn’t keep him from wishing it wouldn’t.

“It was wise of you to keep your skin free of ink before you came to me.” The voice cuts into him. “It would have been a shame if my property had been marred by an incompetent artist before I had a chance to work on it.”

“I didn’t come to you.” Neil spits out. “And you sure as fuck don’t own me.”

“Didn’t you? The voice asks. “Don’t I?”

A soft pop and the strangled wheeze of ink being squeezed out of a bottle. Neil hates that it’s enough to send shivers down his spine. The routine ministrations of tattoo work – rendered terrifying by his lack of control over the process.

“You certainly had the option to refuse my invitation.” The voice continues. “Yet, where did I find you this morning, but on my doorstep, begging to be let in?”

Neil refuses the bait. He knows it’s not true. It was either him or Andrew. It wasn’t a choice.

“You know, Nathaniel. I am going to love hurting you, like I loved hurting Kevin. Like I would have loved hurting that pathetic little boyfriend of yours, given the chance.”

Neil loses any hope of maintaining his sanity when the needle is pulled out of its sterile packaging directly in his line of sight. He wills his body to put up a fight. To prove for a fact that he doesn’t want this. But nothing happens.

“When it gets to be too much for you, don’t hesitate to cry.”

Neil tries and fails to hold back a sob.

The mechanical whir of a tattoo gun starts up.

“It’s time to begin.” The voice declares.

He isn’t prepared for when the needle hits his skin.

The pain is nothing compared to the utter hopelessness he feels.

He’s not going to survive this.

\--

«Réveille-toi!»

The words echo faintly throughout his mind.

His consciousness feels completely disconnected from reality.

A hand grips his shoulder and shakes him hard, but it registers as little more than a gentle rocking.

«Je n'ai pas le temps pour ta connerie.» The voice is insistent. «J’ai dit, réveille-toi!»

A sharp pain explodes across his face and his world comes into sharp focus. Neil raises his hand to his cheek and finds his skin raw to the touch. The pain is intense – and exactly what he needs right now.

«Il est grand temps.» Neil’s brain begins to register the French. «You have five minutes to get up and take a shower.»

A towel is thrown at his chest, but he has trouble grasping it. He’s still disoriented from the drugs and his movements are slow and uncoordinated. He takes a moment to calm himself down with a few deep breaths before taking the opportunity to assess his surroundings.

He’s currently seated in a tattooing chair in a small private art studio. The walls are painted matte black and accented by dozens of framed red inked tattoo designs around the room. The lack of windows leaves Neil feeling claustrophobic and trapped. Every single piece of equipment he can see is new, polished, and more expensive than what he works with back at the Foxhole. It’s a sickening display of opulence – one that leaves him longing for the days he was scratching in dingy basements with nothing more than a sewing needle and the ink from a broken pen.

He knows there’s no going back to that now.

Across the room, the man who slapped him awake is scrubbing at something in the sink with his back towards Neil. Beside him is a tray filled with used tattooing supplies.

«The shower’s through there.» The man points towards a door in the corner without looking up from his work. «Leave the bandages on. Cold water, obviously. Do not even think about scratching.»

Neil doesn’t reply. He just pushes himself out of the chair and stumbles towards the door, shoving through and quickly pulling it shut behind him. His legs give out the moment he makes it inside, and his knees hit the tiled floor with a sharp crack. It takes all the mental effort he can muster to stop himself from passing out on the spot.

But he knows he has to keep going. He knows doesn’t have a choice.

He reluctantly crawls towards the shower in the corner of the room, slides the stall open, and drags himself to his feet as he twists the polished silver handle violently to the right. The sudden deluge nearly knocks him to the floor, but he braces himself against the wall and manages to keep his balance while he lets the freezing cold water do its job.

\--

Neil steps out of the shower feeling slightly more in control. He slides the stall door shut behind him and picks up the towel he left off the floor on his way to the sink - all the while doing everything he can to ignore the bandages that encompass his left arm.

While doing his best to towel himself dry with his one free hand, Neil takes a look at himself in the mirror – and what he sees doesn’t surprise him. He looks like death. Leaning over the sink, he finds that his eyes are bloodshot beneath his contacts and underlined by deep black circles that betray his underlying exhaustion.

“Fuck me.” Neil mumbles as he squeezes his eyes shut before wrenching them open and prying the contacts out with his fingers. He examines the brown lenses for a moment before discarding them down the sink. They’re of no use to him anymore, not when everyone here already knows who he is.

He glances back up at the mirror before dodging the icy blue stare of his own reflection and turning towards the door. He can no longer hear the sink running outside, so he ties the towel around his waist and pulls the door open.

The man is waiting for him by the chair.

«Well?» The man quirks a brow. «What are you waiting for, Josten? I don’t have all day.»

Neil crosses the room and lowers himself onto the padded leather. The man says nothing as he reaches for his arm and begins to unwind the bandages, starting at his hand and moving upwards. The process is slow and meticulous, so Neil takes the time to get a better look at the man in front of him. It’s not the first time he’s been in the presence of Jean Moreau, Evermore’s third ranked tattoo artist, but it’s the first time he’s ever been close enough to see the extent of what’s been done to him.

The tattoo that covers a large portion of his face is striking in its beauty. The butterfly is centred between his eyes with its pearlescent blue wings spread out to encompass them into its design. The piece extends all the way from the top of his brow down to his cheeks, subjecting Jean to a permanent masquerade. Nearly a dozen sapphires and diamonds shimmer along its wingspan – dermal piercings that dot his forehead and cheekbones in perfect symmetry.

When Neil had first met Jean, he had thought the tattoo to be brazen and ostentatious. However, knowing what he knows now – that he likely had little choice in the matter – he only feels pity.

Almost instinctively, Neil reaches up to graze his fingers against his cheekbone in the same spot he can see the black 3 tattooed under Jean’s left eye. In the same spot as the ever-present 2 that haunts Kevin. In the same spot as the 1 that adorns Riko.

Jean’s eyes catch on the movement.

«Not yet.» He says. «Not until you sign your contract with Evermore.»

«That won’t be happening.» Neil says.

«Please, your talents are wasted at the Foxhole.»

«My talents are mine to waste.»

«Believe what you will for now.» Jean scoffs, tugging harder than he has to at the plastic near Neil's shoulder. «We’ll see how you feel by the end of your stay.»

Neil makes no effort to respond as Jean pulls away the last of the bandages and deposits them on a nearby tray. Next, he grabs a cloth and begins to wipe down his arm. Neil’s gaze remains fixed on Jean as he works, and he refuses to look anywhere else as the cloth drags painfully across the tender skin of his shoulder – as if not acknowledging it will prevent it from becoming real.

«You’re going to have to deal with it eventually.» Jean says as he eases off Neil’s arm and tosses the cloth onto the tray with the bandages. «It might as well be now.»

Neil doesn’t move. Jean just rolls his eyes.

«It’s a part of you now, Josten. Forever. Nothing you can do will change that. So, stop wasting my time and get it over with.»

Jean juts a thumb towards the full-length mirror on the other side of the room before standing up and heading for the sink. Neil stares blankly at his back for full minute before he finally works up the nerve to approach the mirror.

When he sees his reflection, he nearly throws up.

The tattoo that adorns his arm is one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. Rendered in hyper-realistic greyscale, the armoured samurai extends from the top of his shoulder to just above his elbow. The stark contrast in its shading is remarkable and something that Neil could only ever hope to achieve himself. The closer he looks, the more things he finds that leave him in awe – like the cherry blossom that blooms near his clavicle which strikes him as odd for a moment before he realises why. At its centre lies a closed gunshot wound, courtesy of one of his father’s men, many years ago. He’d nearly forgotten about it, given how well it’s been worked into the linework of the tattoo. He spots similar instances of the genius behind the design as his eyes trace down his arm: a knife wound, hidden in the curve of a blade; burn marks, woven into the threading of the samurai's armour. The atrocities committed to his skin by his father – transformed into art.

But it’s not something he wants.

He’d choose scars over the mark of a deranged psychopath.

At least the scars had meant he was healing.

The tattoo only meant he was no longer in control.

Neil’s entire body begins to shake uncontrollably as his unsteady gaze trails away from the samurai towards the unfinished stenciling around the rest of his arm. From it, he can make out what Riko has planned. A towering pagoda occupies his inner bicep from his armpit down to his elbow, where the design opens up into a sprawling Japanese garden. The depths of its pond extend all the way down to his wrist where two large koi fish circle the entire front and back of his forearm. In the foreground, across the back of his hand, a stone shisa stands guard over the scene, its sculpted mane flowing down to the tips of his fingers.

Neil can barely stand. He doesn’t trust his legs to hold him. He catches himself against the mirror before he can hit the ground. There’s no coming back from this now. He’d held onto the faint hope that he’d be able to hide the tattoos, but the ink is everywhere. Even extensive laser removal can only fade them. Neil can feel his chest constrict and his breathing begin to go short. His world turns sideways.

A strong hand grips his shoulder and an arm around his waist. «Relax…» The voice is quiet in his ear. «You’re going to be okay.» It reassures him as he’s guided gently towards the chair. The steady grip eases him onto the soft padded surface and moments later, a cool cloth is draped across his forehead.

Neil can feel the tension slowly start to ease out of him as his breathing returns to normal.

«Drink.» A cup is placed into his hands and warm fingers encapsulate his own as it’s brought to his lips.

Water glides down his throat and Neil relishes in the feeling. He hadn’t even realised how thirsty he was until he’s chugged the entire cup and another is placed in his hands. He takes a sip.

«Better?»

Neil opens his eyes to the steel-grey scrutiny of a butterfly. Without a word, he returns its cool stare. Minutes pass before Jean finally gives up on receiving an answer. He swivels around to grab something from the counter behind him.

«I need to treat your tattoo.» Jean says, squeezing a gob of paste into his palm.

«Like hell you do.»

«Don’t be a child.» Jean says as he reaches for Neil’s arm.

Neil jerks backwards. «Lay one finger on me and just see what happens.»

Jean stops short under Neil’s fierce gaze, clearly unimpressed. «Your tattoo will not heal properly if it is not taken care of.»

«Ask me if I give a shit.» Neil bites back.

«Josten.» Jean intones. «These are Riko’s orders.»

«Ask me. If I give a shit.» Neil repeats slower.

Jean’s eyes narrow. When he extends his hand towards Neil, it’s violently wrenched to the side and twisted at an unnatural angle. Jean is pulled along with it – directly into the metal cart by his side. The tray atop it hits the floor with a loud crash, followed by the clattering sprawl of tattooing supplies across the tile.

«Shit!» Jean yells, cradling his injured arm. «What is wrong with you?»

«I told you not to touch me.» Neil says.

«I told you what Riko’s orders were.» Jean spits. «Believe me when I say – they are not to be ignored.»

«Maybe Riko needs to hear a _no_ for once in his life.» Neil suggests.

Jean bristles. «This will not end well for anyone, Josten. They are my orders, too. Either you let me treat your tattoo, or you subject the both of us to Riko’s wrath.»

Neil doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns his back to Jean.

A heated silence fills the room. Neil can practically feel the waves of anger rolling off the other man. An entire minute goes by before he hears the twist of a knob and the violent slamming of a door. Another, before he lets out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

Alone for the first time since his arrival at Evermore, Neil begins to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Instead of starting on chapter 2, I drew this. So, that's what you get instead. Sorry?
> 
> I'll be updating this throughout the story, so I guess you have that to look forward to.


End file.
